Recently I’ve come to the end of one major piece of work– for me, at least. 75000 words. Probably around 74900 uses of the word “just”. Too many winkies and bottoms and foo-foos to count. Lots of men with dark hair (oh men with dark hair! How you haunt my dreams! The naughty dreams, I mean. Not the ones about xenomorphs from the movie Alien). Lots of shenanigans of the ménage variety going on.
And yet despite all this finishing of the longest piece of work I’ve ever written, I don’t feel empty. I don’t feel weird. I loved writing every word of it (even if it’s nonsense, which I suspect it might be), but now I just feel kind of…free. I have a sudden moment of freedom, to write whatever I feel like. And as I’ve finished the other thing I was working on (yet more threesome stuff), the sense of freedom is even vaster and sexier.
I get to write my silly robot story, now! I get to plan out other projects that have been clamouring at the walls around my brain! I’m all excited, and I can’t be the only one that feels that way, can I? Do any other writers out there get all excited, at the thought of being able to write whatever you want, for a moment?
Though I get just as excited about being tied to a contract, too, so I don’t know what the what’s going on in my head. I’m starting to understand why I would even write a novel like Control in the first place, because it’s about a woman who can’t decide between a dominant man who wants to tie her up, and a submissive man that lets her do whatever she wants to him.
I am living my book, only through the medium of book contracts. God, I love being a writer.